


Gently Wipe the Blood from Your Hands

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Category: Spider-Gwen (Comics)
Genre: Blood and Violence, DA Foggy Nelson, Foggy Nelson Kills Bullseye and Has a Crisis About It, Gen, Hints of Murderdock Caring, Matt Murderdock - Freeform, Murder, Self-Defense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-05-31
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:34:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,187
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24463579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: The main hindrance to Foggy Nelson living a happy, healthy, stress-free life is probably his friendship with Matt Murdock.DA Nelson takes one more step over the line.
Relationships: Matt Murdock & Franklin "Foggy" Nelson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 92





	Gently Wipe the Blood from Your Hands

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Upupanyway](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Upupanyway/gifts).



> Based on [this amazing piece of art](https://artbymintcookies.tumblr.com/post/618740542381146112/thinks-about-da-nelson-and-murderdock-how-far-can)

The main hindrance to Foggy Nelson living a happy, healthy, stress-free life is probably his friendship with Matt Murdock. He considers this truth blandly while blood drips from his trembling hands and a serial killer lies dead at his feet. Though Foggy’s ears are ringing, he imagines he can hear each droplet as it hits the concrete.

Plip, plip, plip. A sick imitation of the heart that once sent them rushing through Benjamin Poindexter’s veins.

_Matt_ , Foggy thinks, trying for vehemence and achieving only a desperate kind of defensiveness. _This is all Matt’s fault_.

* * *

At first acquaintance, Matt had seemed innocuous. Guarded and bizarre and poorly socialized, yes, but... Clever, sharp, funny, charming, and handsome too. So he had a rack of knives carefully hidden from the RA. They were from his foster family in Japan, of course he’d want them close. So Matt got in a fight or two. He was angry, wound tight, Foggy knew that. But at that time, Matt was the only person in Foggy’s nineteen years of life who had actually wanted him around. Who seemed to enjoy his company. Foggy had never been so stupid as to think there might have been love there — he knew even that young that he wasn’t made to be loved — but the wanting was enough.

When Matt encouraged Foggy to run for DA, he did it. When Matt wanted to turn on his crooked boss, Wilson Fisk, Foggy helped him. It was supposed to be ok. It was supposed to be the right thing to do.

But Foggy had heard ‘I want to take down Fisk’s criminal empire’ where it never was. That was on him. Should’ve known to read the fine print.

Still, Matt’s... He’s important to Foggy. He’ll probably always be important to Foggy. When he’s not being the worst sort of asshole, he’s the best. So when he asks if Foggy wants to take a leisurely jaunt around town for the evening, who is Foggy to say no?

Foggy’s never been all that wary about walking around at night, and especially never with Matt. In addition to maybe possibly being the new kingpin, Matt’s just a genuinely scary guy. It’s something Foggy’s always secretly admired a little — it’s tougher to be terrifying when so many people try to infantilize you for your disability, but Matt’s got sheer intimidation on speed dial. And even when someone makes it past his aura, well. Matt’s also got a mean right hook and always fights dirty. Larry Cranston’s nose is still crooked to this day from the beating Matt gave him at Columbia.

All that is to say, Foggy’s pretty secure in the thought that they’re safe, even as Matt trots them down increasingly sketchy alleys. And then a figure steps out of the shadows, right in front of them. The second the light hits his face, Foggy goes cold.

Standing before them, twirling a knife in one hand, is Benjamin Poindexter. The gruesome images of his victims flash across Foggy’s mind’s eye. A case the city’s been trying to lock down for almost a month now. Castle’s been going at a machine’s pace over it, George had told Foggy — not sleeping, barely eating. But Poindexter — Bullseye — is like smoke, slipping through their fingers.

“Mr. DA,” Poindexter says with a ravenous smile, “you’re so far from home.”

“Matt,” Foggy says, stumbling back a step.

There’s no response. Foggy has a sudden, horrible feeling that he’s been set up. But when he glances towards Matt, his hands are gripping his cane so tightly that his already pale knuckles go bone-white. That’s not the posture of a man whose assassination plan is coming together cleanly.

Inanely, Foggy’s mind also points out that if Matt wanted him dead he's the kind of guy who’d have the guts to do it himself.

Foggy turns his attention back to Poindexter.

“Think about this,” he cautions, because his words are all he has to fall back on now. “If you kill me you’re just making things worse for yourself later.”

“Not quite. You boys are the last two names on my list. I’d love to see Castle try to catch me over state lines, though.”

So. There’s no dissuading Poindexter. Foggy’s going to die. No, worse, he and Matt are both going to die.

“Don’t worry, Nelson,” Poindexter says, flipping the knife again and tapping his forehead with the index finger of his other hand. “This is going right into your brain. You won’t feel a thing. I’ll save the slow way for Murdock, so we can play.”

The knife is flying at him before Foggy has a chance to properly digest those words. Poindexter’s grin stretches hideously wider, a jack-o-lantern smile. There’s a flash of red and white in front of Foggy’s eyes, too fast to parse — and then the knife is hitting the concrete. Right by Foggy’s shoe. He stares at it. Doesn’t look up even at the howl of rage that fills the alley. Bends down to pick it up.

“I never miss!” Poindexter snarls, rushing them. “Never!”

The knife is in Foggy’s hand, then, and it’s like he’s just watching, watching from somewhere distant as he stands again.

“Miss this,” his voice says without his input.

The tip of the knife, already red with blood — whose blood? Foggy’s certain it was pristine in Poindexter’s hand — slides between the killer’s ribs like it was meant to go there. But Foggy pulls it out.

_Slow_? He was going to kill Matt _slow_?

Foggy stabs the knife in again, a different spot this time. In. And out. And in again. Over, and over, and over, and o—

When Foggy finally comes back to himself, Poindexter’s knife drops from his nerveless fingers and hits the ground with a clatter that might as well be an explosion. There’s. Blood. There’s so much blood. It’s everywhere.

“Oh. Oh god, what... what have I done?”

“I think you just saved my life,” Matt says, his tone a strange mixture of wry and impressed.

The blood drips from Foggy’s fingers — plip, plip, plip. This is all Matt’s fault. Foggy is going to throw up. He needs to breathe, he needs.

Mind still reeling, he fumbles a cigarette out of the box tucked in the front pocket of his slacks. Of all his vices, he knows Matt hates this one the most. It makes him reek, and only an idiot willingly inhales carcinogens — Foggy knows the whole spiel by heart. Nonetheless, when Foggy’s shaking fingers can’t seem to extract the lighter from his suit’s interior pocket, Matt sighs and holds one out, clicking it open for Foggy’s use.

“Thanks,” Foggy mutters on instinct, though he’s not feeling very grateful.

As he takes his first drag of smoke, he drops down onto the cleanest patch of alley available, just to stave off the humiliation of his legs buckling. There he sits for several minutes, listlessly smoking, unable to take his eyes off Poindexter sprawled on the ground like a marionette with cut strings. Eventually Foggy can’t bear to look, and he drops the hand with the cigarette somewhere near his ankle, lets the other come up to cover his face. The smear of blood from his palm onto his face is disgusting but Foggy’s head is already spinning too much for it to matter.

“Chin, up, Mr. District Attorney,” Matt croons, voice poisonously sweet. “You conducted yourself admirably.”

He doesn’t lower himself to sit next to Foggy, just nudges at his ankle with the cane. Gently. Foggy might almost say tenderly, but even this situation hasn’t fucked him up that badly. He drags his bloodied hand down his bloodied face, then takes another pull from his cigarette.

“Fuck all the way off, Matt.”

He means it to come out sharp, but. There’s too much emotion, too much shock and trauma for his voice to do anything but waver.

“An animal like this isn’t something to mourn over, you know. You ought to save this guilt for someone more important.”

It’s a testament to how turned-around Foggy is that he doesn’t know if that’s good advice or not. Either way, he doesn’t have enough mental or emotional control to stop himself from feeling guilty or shaken or sick.

“Someone will find him,” he says absently. “Find out that I, that I...”

Even if he’s acquitted, it’s probably the end of his career. Poindexter is a serial killer and a scumbag. It was self-defense. But public perception is everything, and this scene is grisly no matter how you look at it. Excessive. Overkill. Especially when neither he or Matt have a scratch on them.

“I can fix it,” Matt offers. “If you let me.”

All Foggy can muster is a bleak laugh. Yes. Matt’s very good at fixing things. Every deal with him, every compromise, seems like a wonderful gift. A life raft when Foggy’s drowning. The only port in the storm. But they take a little more from him each time. Foggy’s not, he’s beginning to realize, the good man he once thought he was.

“How.”

“Come back to mine,” says Matt, and his words are hypnotic, impossible to resist. “Clean yourself up. I’ll get those clothes washed, and come morning it’ll be like nothing ever happened. I promise.”

When Foggy tips his head back to study Matt’s face, there’s not much to see except his own disheveled reflection in Matt’s red shades and that familiar, knowing devil’s smile. It’s nothing like the bland, sweet thing Matt showed the world in college. Nothing like the mask he hid behind then. But his hand, pale and crisscrossed with a million silver scars, is outstretched to Foggy like it’s always been.

Foggy accepts it.

Matt pulls him to his feet with barely any effort, though he lets out a quiet hiss through his teeth. In return, Foggy drops his cigarette onto the ground and scrapes it out with the heel of his shoe. Some small, still uncorrupted part of him laments his littering. The rest is too numb and traumatized to care.

“Get the car going, would you, Otomo?” he hears Matt say to his chauffeur as he bundles Foggy into the back of the car. “Good man. We’re headed home.”

The city passes in a blur, and Foggy watches it idly out the window. His clothes are still damp with blood, but not dripping. The stains will be set soon. When Foggy flexes his hand, the dried blood there flakes and cracks, leaving hints of his own pale skin showing through. There must be some on Matt now from when he hauled Foggy to his feet. It’s almost funny. Foggy contaminating Matt, dirtying his hands instead of the other way around.

They reach Matt’s building and Otomo opens the car doors for them. In a reverse of their usual routine, it’s Matt who guides Foggy — herding him inside, into the elevator, through the penthouse to the bathroom, with a hand on his back.

“Clean up,” Matt orders, and the words shake Foggy from his stupor.

“Right,” he says, stepping into the eerily white bathroom and closing the door behind himself. “Right.”

Foggy’s clothes hit the tile with ugly, wet slaps. He turns the shower as hot as it’ll go, scrubs himself over three or four times. He still doesn’t feel clean even then, but the hot water is beginning to run out, so Foggy turns it off and dries himself with one of Matt’s ridiculously fluffy towels.

It’s white. And it remains white when he’s finished toweling off. Foggy contents himself with that.

His bloodied clothes are gone. Instead, there’s a pile of clothing laid out on the massive bathroom counter — but it’s not a suit. It’s an old, faded Columbia t-shirt Foggy’s certain he lost senior year, and a pair of boxers that look brand new but are in his size. He puts them on and tries not to think about it. When he emerges into the main room of Matt’s penthouse, the man himself is still wearing his full suit, has barely loosened his tie, but his socks and shoes are off. Foggy smiles at the familiarity.

“Thanks, Matt. For the shower, and for the clothes. But I don’t think I can go home in this,” he points out.

“Stay the night,” Matt offers, quiet and insistent. “It’s late.”

So Foggy does. Matt lets him have the bed. It’s sinfully comfortable — silk sheets, memory foam, the whole nine yards. As he drifts off, Foggy wonders if Matt ever actually uses it.

* * *

When he wakes in the morning, Matt’s in the kitchen wearing gray sweatpants, a thin white tank top, and — as always — his shades. He’s already made coffee. There’s also a clean white bandage wrapped around his right forearm, but he doesn’t mention it so neither does Foggy. Instead, Foggy drinks a cup of coffee, checks the news — a perfectly normal day in New York. Crime, yes, there's always crime, but. No mutilated body found in an alley near the river. No suspicious bloodstains reported. No charges of murder leveled against the DA.

Nothing.

Like it never happened.


End file.
